Free Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) by Susan Russo Anderson Page B

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    Serafina noticed a few clouds in the sky, not threatening, but nonetheless, she became curious. “What do you do when it rains?” she asked della Trabia, after her breathing returned to normal, raising her voice over the clatter. She slid to one side on the hard seat and clung to the rail.
    “Me? I have my own horse. As for the rain, we’ve been lucky the past four, five years. Seldom rains in the spring, I know, but we’ve been having a wet one this year, good soaking rains, then it goes dry for weeks at a time. Don’t know about the grain, but the citrus trees like it. Lately when the rain comes, it’s sudden and fierce, so I’ve learned it’s best to keep a slicker in the pack.”
    They were silent for a time as the trap pitched and rolled.
    Breaking the mood, he spoke, shouting over the braying mule and the creaking wood. “Don’t use this trap much, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment—we’re using all the carts in the field—can’t use the carriage on these paths. Our busy time now, picking, bagging the citrus, pruning some of the trees, cleaning up after ourselves.” He turned around and saw them clinging to the side handles. “You don’t like the ride?”
    “It’s fine,” Rosa said, gritting her teeth. “Almost as good as a peasant cart.” She whispered to Serafina, “He’s driving us in this contraption on purpose, the rotter.”
    At one point, Serafina knocked into Rosa, both almost tumbling onto the floor, but soon she adjusted to the motion and found her mind wandering. If Serafina were honest with herself, della Trabia would have charmed her a few years ago with his gorgeous eyes and his confident stride. True, they owed their lives to his fearless dispatch of the bandits this morning, but today he amused her, nothing more. She was amazed at how much her life had changed in such a short time and couldn’t help comparing him with Loffredo, who was taller than their guide and certainly more polished than della Trabia, possessing a cleansing, almost magnetic, certainly a noble de meanor and a sense of culture, too. Discarding her ruminations of a few minutes ago, she longed for him, right now, right this minute, but she had a job to do and steeled her resolve, turning her mind to the reason she and Rosa were here—finding the baroness’s killer.
    Presently they rode on smoother ground, the smell of citrus becoming stronger, almost overpowering. Della Trabia slowed the trap, drove it through the opening in a high fence, and they entered the orchards. As far as the eye could see were orange groves, rows and rows of trees heavy with ripe fruit and men so numerous, they seemed to cover the trees like winged creatures—men on ladders, men on the ground holding sacks and catching the fruit as it dropped, men raking oranges off the ground and dumping them into small boxes.
    “The fruit that drops to the ground we sell in town, but most of these crates will be loaded into the lower holds of the baron’s new ship. Cold down there, I tell you. Got something new—it’s called refrigeration. An experiment, Naldo tells me. Don’t know much about it yet, but going to learn, all right. The future, Naldo says. And the ship’s fast, skims the waves like a beast, he tells me.”
    “How many ships does the baron own?”
    “Small fleet now. The newest is his fourth or fifth, but the older ones are much slower.” He was silent for a time, then straightened, his eyes fixed in the middle distance. Stopping the cart, he tied the reins to a tree and said, “Excuse me for a bit.”
    She and Rosa watched him amble over to a knot of men some meters ahead who were agitated about something. The mob seemed to be swelling with men, who were climbing out of trees and stumbling over, each man swallowed up into a circular mass of seething dust. In a few strides, della Trabia arrived, shoved one of the men aside and wormed his way into the middle. The churning increased, and the dust roiled. Serafina